


Pretty Eyes

by gemnosha



Category: Cherik - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - On an airplane, Alternate Universe- No Powers, M/M, Pietro Maximoff (young), Sokovia exists in the X-Men Universe AU, single father!Erik, steward!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnosha/pseuds/gemnosha
Summary: Erik, single father of four, takes his three children with on a trip to London where he has to lecture a hall of students about something-rather. The plot focuses on their time on the plane where Erik meets Charles, the sexy, sweet thing that he canonically is–slash–flight attendant.*designed for the readers with romantic hearts!





	Pretty Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest ficlet I've ever written and I seriously don't know how some people can sit and write 40k dribbles and not want to choke themselves halfway through.

 

 

_This is our home made from laughter and snow_

_And here where I sleep you learn to grow_

_It's one of those things all boys should know_

_so that they can get big, for one day they'll go_

_and continue to grow_

_and this mother will have a boy as big as the globe_

 

_~_

**this is our home, made from laughter and snow, 6:38 p.m.**

Westchester County Airport buzzed eternally. Or, in other words: it was loud. Peculiarly, the bustling part of North New York wasn't necessarily hurdling to be anywhere special this time of the winter, so the fact that it was so ridiculously loud was surprising. It was, in fact, not the people of New York City but the insect life that was one of vivid color and noise. A perfectly trimmed topiary of blue stars circled the airport with a unique and somewhat unsettling open-armed invitation to swarms of not only bright, yellow bees but crickets and beetles and all the rest. If one didn't no better, Westchester County Airport smelled and sounded like a tour through an Amazon – minus the danger.

The inside, luckily, was calm… just not for single father of four, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr.

Erik didn't particularly fancy hastening his way between two walls of human blockades that were threatening to do nothing more than collapse into one another. That's why he never liked airports, or at the very least, he didn't like having three of his four children accompanying him whilst they insisted on doing no more than burdening his restless body.

He was on a trip to Oxford University to do pro bono work that involved him, a lecture hall, 18-hundred pupils, and a very uncensored slideshow about the World War II Nazism in Poland. He was looking forward to it – which is what he refuses to stop repeating in his head as he walks down the corridors of an empty airport. But honestly, he was looking forward to it. His children, the beautiful, pure and sweet angels that they are, wanted to come with to support him.

 _Sure_ , Erik. _Sure_.

“Warten Sie hier, lieblings,” Erik instructs before he bends down to pull his second youngest daughter’s Frozen-themed backpack from his shoulders, laying it down next to her. She smiles at him innocently, wrinkling her nose into a small, twitch like, scrunched shape that makes his heart nearly split in two.

 _Meet Nina_. Nina is Erik’s second youngest daughter, one from his most recent wife Magda Gursky. The steel-hearted man couldn't help but feel nakedly human when he wandered into Nina’s stare. She was so soft and ethereal that it took a fair amount of _balls_ , Erik admitted, to not want to hold her at every hour of every day. She was not like her half sister or brother – no, her siblings were tougher than her because they were more like _him_. They could break hearts and yield weapons within their skin(behind their smiles). Nina Gurksy was like her mother, she was like a cloud, but not one that was devoid of light, that was grey and dark and buried in sadness. Nina was a cloud that held the sun behind her on a thin thread of laughter and dragged it around the world spreading warmth. Nina was by far the most compassionate and the least fearful to show it through her kind green eyes.

“Wait here,” Erik instructs again, his eyes switching between the three of them to double – _triple_ – _qua druple_ check that he has made himself very, very, very clear. _Do not disobey these technicolored eyes_ , he thinks to himself. He leaves them to wait an inch(more like a 1mm thick glass wall) away from Gate X2.

Boarding time: t-minus 14 minutes, and Erik… Erik needs to pee and have a small moment to relish in the silence that Westchester County Airport is currently offering.

An important questions comes to mind when Erik finds himself drowning in the bathroom sink, celebrating in the cool water: Why do airport bathrooms always smell like poorly washed dishes?

Pietro Maximoff, his eldest child, only son and the most impatient boy on earth is on cleanup duty until his twin-sister stops getting her way. The boy always speeds his way through it, though and Erik can't help but smile at the fact that the Airport bathroom smells just like the drying rack when his son is “finished” cleaning the plates.

He relieves himself from the cold hands of the bathroom sink, just in time to hear the intercom go off. A calm, collected voice runs through the ceiling(he notices the womanly edge to it, and how it fills his lungs with a sense of order) as it says, “Passengers for Oxford, London please make your way to Gate X2. We will begin boarding in a moment.”

He sweeps his face over his palms, breathing in the life around him, the air and the coolness. He will deny it if asked, but he was beyond fatigued.

Outside the bathroom, he sees Pietro, eyes glued to gameboy-thingy-what’s-it(Sentinel 2000) and not paying attention to swollen-lipped, sulking Wanda, his younger sister, and Nina who has probably barely moved from where Erik left her.

“Okay, my all deserving sweethearts,” he says sarcastically, his cocky smile waving over the corner Wanda’s glare as she rolled her eyes, “are we ready?”

“Where are we going again, Awkward University? Axe ward?” Pietro asks, diminishing every syllable with his Sokovian accent. Erik couldn't help but smile. His little twins were just as much his pride and precious prizes as his second youngest. The only difference between them and Nina was that Nina’s mother was still living and happy, caring for his youngest baby Anya. Pietro and Wanda’s mother suffered terribly under the circumstances of a crumbling city known as Sokovia. Fortunately both children survived, but with scars that were twice the size of their hearts… Erik couldn't blame them. He only wishes they would let him heal them, console them, to bring them into his arms and replace their broken spirits with new ones. He wanted to see his babies again and say goodbye to his two warriors, the ones who hated being with anyone other than him and that tore their eyes out for loud noises and shaky rooms.

“Aux-furd, liebling. Oxford.”

“Whatever,canwego?I'mgettingreallyhungry,weskippeddinneronourwayhere.Remember?Ifyoudon't,nowyoudo.Arewegoingtohaveany,ordidyouwanttowaituntilbreakfast?Idon't mind,butithurts.You knowI'mnotusedtoskippingdinner,” Pietro lets out in one breath, his chest heaving slightly as he paces himself. (In a house of five it's difficult to get a word in, especially over Anya who screams 9 times out 10 when Pietro speaks). Erik has to admit, everything Pietro said made about one sense, and one wasn't enough to comprehend his message.

“You lost me at ‘I'm hungry’, please slow down,” And Erik’s shark teeth barely shape a smile as he frowns. Pietro doesn't bother repeating a word, and instead sighs.

**and here where I sleep, you learn to grow, 6:52 p.m.**

There are about five other people making their way into the boarding gate, Erik notices, and he thinks about every God he can remember to share his gratitude. A plane with four Lehnsherrs can get quite rough when a quarter of the party seems to be silently upset about something – but that was Wanda’s new normal: fitting her sadness into a wearable frown that was masked by a silent voice box and reddened stare. It was yet another thing on a long list of failures that Erik could check off on how to be a good dad(he barely spoke of his insecurities, many of which resulted around the idea of being the worse parent in the world). So, Erik was thankful that the plane wasn't full of victims who would bear the gut-wrenching ambiance that followed his sour thoughts.

He himself barely, even less gracefully, shoves past his own depressing mood as he recollects his boarding passes and hurries his children down the passageway to the airplane.

Pietro schlepps his Fast & Furious Merchandised Bag by its broken wheels all the way while Wanda does her best to dodge it. She, on the other hand, doesn't like to be tied down by weight(She hates it. Erik learnt that the hard way) so she's free of any baggage, grumpily skipping down the passage with her single braid swinging like a pendulum to Erik’s amusement. Nina and her tiny ten fingers are attached to Erik’s calves, struggling with their firm grip as he shuffles carefully beside her.

He doesn't register it but when he reaches the airplane door, the look on the woman carefully reads Erik’s forehead like it could only be stating the obvious. He realizes how miserable this must look: Him, carrying three bags on his left shoulder while his right hand does its own best effort to prevent Nina from getting her head bashed by his knee and still simultaneously supervising his twins from running into a corner or a crook that can lead to their inevitable end.

 _Morbid_ , Erik.

She does her version of best, trying not to judge and humiliate the poor, tired man by giving him pitiful looks. As said, her version of best. It doesn't bother Erik as much as he supposes it should.

“May I have your boarding pass please,” She demands nicely, her dirty blond curls resting like birds on her shoulders. If the myth had been twisted from reptiles to avians she might have resembled a modern day Medusa, Erik thinks(and he snorts but for the life of him, don't hold that against him). “Right down here sir, seat C to F on row 33. Enjoy the flight sweetheart,” the last bit is directed at Wanda Erik reassures himself before the mumbled ‘thank you’ slips between his teeth.

Row 12.

The plane, slowly unfolding in the young father’s eyes, is a comfortable one. The roof seems to glimmer in the dim light and Erik can only imagine that when the lights go off it must look like the outside sky. The carpeted floors aren't too impressive but he has to admit that the velvet reddish hue looks pleasing. As for the seats, they looked so, so soft – maybe Erik was just exhausted.

Row 27.

He had just spent hours packing, fighting, driving and rehearsing. He supposes that arguing with your ex wife brings out old ghosts, ones of sad, tired pasts; and that having to force your children to go with you across the ocean because their mom-slash-step-mom-slash-guardian is too overrun taking care of their youngest sister who, in fact, mostly shits and shouts as it is. (On the bright side, Anya has the most beautiful eyelashes).

Row 30.

So, conclusively, being so tired and so emotionally drained makes it easy to see this plane as – how would he put this – a fucking spa.

Row 33.

“Lieblings, right here. Quicksilver leave your bag with me please.”

The twins scatter first, Pietro in the lead on a mission to claim the aisle seat on the other side so that he could steal glances through the window on the other side of the plane. Then; Wanda follows her brother solely because she likes to be with him – always. Nina, not shockingly, waits for Erik to finish putting away their bags and making his way into the second seat, seat D, before she claims the second aisle seat beside him.

Wanda is still as silent as a rock and her lip hangs just as heavy as one. Erik feels bad. He always does. There are many times that Wanda has found herself distancing herself from him, Nina, and Magda. He doesn't always understand but his reasoning clings to one specific memory of her shamefully admitting that Magda was and might never be her mother. But Wanda is his most complicated daughter, his strongest child, and also his scariest. She didn't mean it harshly when she said it, no one held it against her.

He tries. “My little scarlet baby, why have you been so quiet?” And then he waits as her silence pulls the thin air around him into thick, awkward mush in the shape of an elephant. (And he never got the metaphor precisely until right that moment). “Do you want some sweets, maybe?”

 _Nice_ , Erik. _Bribe her_.

As expected, she shakes her head. His breath sounds like two boulders plummeting from the sky.

“This is your Captain Speaking. My name is Ororo and I'm very pleased to say that this flight will be a short, comfortable night with nothing but a rush of a few watery clouds. We will begin takeoff in a few minutes while our cabin crew finish up,” The intercoms goes off, suddenly, but still underwhelmingly calm. "All 12 passengers I’d like to welcome you to the X-Airlines and we hope you have a pleasant flight.” Erik can swear he hears her giggle at the number of passengers. His green eyes turn blue from the joy of the light air hiccuping in his lungs as his silent giggle disappears. The air is less thick and he's greateful.

To his right, Pietro is already indulging himself with the small television, and Erik, to be quite honest, doesn't want to know what he's watching because he's fearful he might have to be a parent again for a moment. He isn't worried though, he knows Pietro like the back of his hand. His son – wow, his son(He loves saying that so fucking much) – is a boy made thick and firm from the dust of Zeus’ very own lightning. Pietro lived on his own edge of the world, he saw the sky for what it truly was: a canvas of energy and potential, and from it Pietro could conjure anything, any idea, any wonderful, quick and complicated solution. Erik knew he could, he could see it in his silver eyes, how everything reflected in them. Correction, how everything **_alive_** reflected in them. Not to mention, Pietro was tough, like his sister, tough, tough, tough. He could dodge his way through the world by dashing through rocks and all things that promised to hurt him _and_ still stay in one piece. He didn't go headfirst and rock the world for itself like Wanda but he could walk through it unnafacted just the same. Maybe he needed to be like that with a sister like Wanda. But yes, Erik wasn't worried. His twins were warriors, as crazy as the reason why, they were just that. Warriors. Much like him – but that's _another_ story.

Wanda is leaning against him absentmindedly, her lips curling into different shapes as she speaks to her invisible audience. The magic that goes through her head, Erik wonders, is strange. Her thoughts are clouds from another world and when they pour down with harsh bursts of rain she can either be the most artistic genius or the angriest little girl in the universe. She's only eleven, Erik admires, and she's so beautiful, so unique, and so, so –

“Is that so?” A soft, welcoming voice rings to his left – it's not Nina’s is the first thing he thinks – and it carries such a wave of warmth. – It's a man’s voice is the second thing he thinks. – He hasn't even turned to match the voice to a face before he finds himself falling back into his seat, nerves overtaken by the gentleness of the singsong way the man spoke, like a siren luring him into a coma. _And his kids_. He nearly snaps his neck to see him, a member of the cabin crew, holding one of Nina’s hands motherly in his own as he spoke to her. His blue eyes were kind and looked as if when they watched Nina they walked on their tiptoes to make sure that she wasn't frightened. His blue eyes were also _blue_. But, not _any_ blue. They were a whole new spectrum of blue of their own. ( _God, fuck, Jesus they were so fucking blue_ , Erik thought). “And this line right here, what does that mean?” He asked her as he traced the line that ran from the bottom of her thumb through her palm.

She pushed her hips up against the seat to see better and wrinkled her nose in thought. “Mine is long, see. Mama says it's because I am da-pen-dribble. It means rock. Can see?” And she grabs the man’s hand slowly and twists him into an awkward bend, palm-reading like she's a professional. “Yours,” she considers, “you think too much. When you feel like it is no longer like Christmas you think too much so that you don't know it's not Christmas.” The man smiles, and it's one of those smiles, Erik recognizes, that one can't help but show( – it possesses your face like a demon and hurts until you have to close your eyes and count to ten. 1, 2, 3 –) because something amazing just happened.

“You, my dear, are nothing short of an actual angel,” he whispers to her like it's a secret before his eyes detour to Erik’s.

 _Stop staring_ , Erik. _For the sake of fuck_.

“And now I see where those beautiful green eyes come from,” he says, speaking to Nina but staring involuntarily into the whirlpool that is Erik’s technicolor daydream. “Or blue,” The man questions, “or grey? Oh dear. I don't quite know.” And he's staring at Erik like he's the most confusing, yet amazing puzzle he could find on the daily newspaper. And Erik (– he knows for a fact that New York Daily didn't have anything better than a small crossword with an animal theme. He and Nina and finished it together in the car ride. –) couldn't figure out how to speak. “Please do help me out,” the man insists, reaching out his hand from the comfortable grasp of Nina, “my name is Charles.”

Erik knows he's supposed to act half human and respond to this common social interaction by extending his own hand and not so vigorously shake this man's, but there's a small brown curl hanging between those endless blue eyes and he wishes it wouldn't be weird to brush it behind this man’s ears. Surprisingly, he contains himself. “Erik Lehnsherr, the mother – **father**! I mean father of these handfuls,” he says very, very smoothly.

Very smoothly.

They shake hands. Erik refuses to acknowledge how sweaty his palms are.

“Oh, I don't know about handfuls,” Charles says brightly, glancing for a moment at the twins who were now fast asleep against one another, “they seem like angels.”

“They are honestly. I wouldn't be the same without them,” he admits and he's less nervous. His children, much like Nina’s long life line on her palm says, are his rock and he depends on them to keep himself from falling devoid of motivation. Whether it's a WWII lecture or talking to Weschester’s most gorgeous man the thought that his children were _his_ was enough to make him feel like Superman.

“Tell me, Erik Lehnsherr, mother of three,” the brunet giggles, “would you and your lovely Nina here like something to drink before takeoff?” Erik was slightly surprised that he and Nina were already good acquaintances.

“Coke!” Nina exclaims, her eyes gleaming with childlike lust.

“No!” Erik whispers his small ecstatic scream, “just water. If she has any soda she'll be going to the bathroom all seven hours and I won't get hint of sleep,” he keeps his voice turned from Nina’s ears during the last part of his speech, personally for Charles to hear. The brunet grows another one of those uncontrollable smiles. It pops in Erik’s head. His pink lips are truly unforgettable. “But, uh, for me. A glass of wine wouldn't be awful.”

Charles raises his brows, “Ah, a classy man. Would you prefer Graça, Four Cousins or whatever else there is that I, so unfortunately, can't describe for you.” Erik can't help but feel the sincerity that floats around this brunet, and how easily comfortable he feels despite the whole sweaty-palms-and-speechless moment.

“Surprise me,” Erik says, and he swallows something hard and solid in his throat as he attempts his crappy, crappy flirting. Charles obviously hears the tone of Erik’s voice because his eyes go wide, endlessly wide like the color of his eyes.

_For fucks sake his eyes are like the damn ocean._

“I'll be right back then,” Charles grits out of his teeth, “handsome.” He rushes away awkwardly but Erik – oh, Erik. – his heart is a balloon.

Nina intertwines her fingers with Erik’s before she mumbles something he can't understand. In a second, she's asleep too.

**it’s one of the things that all boys should know, 7:01 p.m.**

Underneath the blanketing locks of hair of his daughters provide him, he's warm and content. Sleepy! but content. Furthermore, the stress of trying to tiptoe around Magda and her threatening paperwork of custody agreements for the last year or so seemed to dissipate into nothing.

**so that they can get big, for one day they'll go, 7:04 p.m.**

Charles, by his word, is right back. He has a small plastic cup with the lightest tint of red wine in it. “Here you are,” he says shyly, “a full glass of surprise.” Erik takes it with a smile. Charles seems to glare at him as he does, like he's studying his smile. Just for a moment. Erik remembers what his first wife used to tell him and he can't help but feel a bit insecure of his grin. – “Sometimes you look like a shark. A handsome, rugged shark! But still a shark. Those teeth, Magnus!” She laughed as Erik shoveled into her neck with toothy kisses. – “I'll be back, Erik. After takeoff, but until then please enjoy,” Charles comments before reaching his hands brusquely into Erik’s lap(Erik didn't jump. Well, only slightly.) and clipping his seatbelt on. “Safety first.” He falls for the wink.

“Now you sound like me on the days I'm awake,” Erik comments, ignoring the heat developing on his cheeks. The brunet offers a simple smile in return before he walks away.

“Jesus,” Erik chokes on his wine. _That butt._

Barely a moment later the intercoms chimes. “Attention passengers, this is your co-captain speaking. My name is Hank McCoy and I would just like to inform you that we will be taking off soon.” Then it chimes again.

“Welcome to X-Airlines,” a new voice sings through the airplane, (and – it's so full of life! –) “could you please fasten your seatbelts while the cabin crew make their way down the aisles and close the overhead bins. My name is Raven Darkholme and I'll be assisting you tonight along with my brother, Charles, and colleagues Betsy – uh – I mean, Elizabeth Braddock and – hey! What're you doing? I can do this! Let go, Alex!”

Erik is grateful for the wine that sizzles down his throat. A second later the intercom cuts out before it returns with a loud smack. “Ahem. My name is Alex Summers. Please enjoy the flight and pay attention to the overhead signals. You will be informed when it is safe to move from your seats. _Alex you fuck_ — Thank you.”

He looks up lazily to wear the non-smoking sign burns with a red light right next to the orange seatbelt sign.

 _Fuck_ , Erik thought. He couldn't smoke for the next eight hours. His late wife would be amused. His eyelids glued themselves closed, letting the wine push his body into a fuzzy ball of sleep.

The airplane roared over his snores.

Erik doesn't dream often. He dreams rarely to be quite honest. It's a surprise how he finds himself wrapped in blue silk in the middle of his old house in Sokovia, his favorite place to be before the city submerged. He can smell the finder that stains the hardwood floors from the day Wanda and Pietro played firewood tag, a game that would never for the life Erik trend again. His fingers trace over the linen: it's cold. It's also comfortable. After a while it's not so cold. He likes it. It's simple.

“You're easy to fall in love with my sweetheart,” he hears the twin’s mother’s voice, it's almost as soft as Charles’ but way less gentle, less kind. His late wife was brutally honest, headstrong and compassionate in the way machetes buttered bread. “You act like a man of steel but you're so mushy, like marshmallow, you know. S’ why Pietro is so fond of you and not me,” she giggled. Erik can't see her, he's blinded by fiery writing in the air. He doesn't wonder where it's coming from. He knows. It's Wanda’s handwriting… formed from flame but still hers, and it’s from the letter she wrote and left at her mother’s grave.

_Dear mama,_

_Pietro misses you. He's always humming your lullaby. Always. The one about the boy who grows up and his mother._

_I miss you too. Most of all._

_I think papa does but he hides it away. He sleeps with us in bed at night now, holding us. Some nights I feel him shaking against me. I think that he cries in secret. I think he hates crying. He thinks it's bad._

“Because I'm a rock,” Their mother continues, “and you, sweetheart, you fall in love with anything with pretty eyes and a wild heart.” Erik watches, reads, re-reads the flames until they turn into ash and rest by the cinder marks on the floor. Everything is dark. He can only see the blue linen, but not even his own hands. He can start to see the airplane overhead bin shimmer behind the blue fabric. He's opening his eyes. Before he's fully awake he can hear her, “and it's okay. Fall in love again, and again. Because your heart is good despite what you believe.” She's gone again and the plane hums mechanically.

“That,” he grumbles, “is some wine.”

**and continue to grow, 7:46 p.m.**

He needs to stretch his legs. That's what he decides. His thighs press against the seat in front of him as he slides past Nina, who is sound asleep fortunately.

The airplane is already in the air and Erik must've slept right through the safety briefing on the television, and for that he is grateful. He's had to fly to different universities so many times that he's memorized the procedures by heart. If someone had to ask him to prepare the passengers he could do so in under thirty seconds or less without missing a beat.

He stretches, bending his legs until he hears the cracks in his knees give out with steam. His back swiftly follows.

“Good lord and I thought I was tense,” And Erik recognizes the voice from the intercom. Raven Darkholme. Brother of cutie pie. He means Charles. “Ah,  rugged stranger with the cute kids, hi, hello,” and she shakes his hand without permission. Erik can smell the dominance that derails from her aura like an inescapable fragrance. Then, almost too suddenly, he realizes that Raven Darkholme was bird-nest Medusa. She had showed him to his seat and glared him down with those censorious daggers for eyes.

“Erik, nice to meet you... officially. Uh, where is Charles if I may ask?”

Her face lifts. “He's, erm, in the back by the pantry. Go ahead.” And they shuffle past one another. Raven invasively stares down the veins that map his neck.

And quite truthfully, Erik M. Lehnsherr translates very effectively into the word ‘sexy’ in most languages. Especially Raven’s. (And Charles’ Erik hopes). He makes his way down the column to where the pale, blue curtain seperated the seats from the very last accessible part of the plane where the brunet is tapping his fingers on the countertop, thinking.

And also…

Charles Francis Xavier is heavily unprepared for Erik’s rough sleepy voice as it saws into the air.

“Holy mother of – Erik! Hi, god, I'm sorry. You surprised me,” Charles exclaims, his heart in his head.

“I'm so dreadfully sorry,” Erik says shamefully as he watches how Charles’ body sinks and leans against the cabinets, truly in aftershock. “I didn't mean to. I just wanted to visit.”

“Don't worry about it. Visit? That's new, but thank you,” Charles smiles. “How was the wine?”

“Amazing. I'm a little drowsy from it but above all.”

“That's good. And your kids, would they like something? Dinner will be served in half an hour if Alex ever figures out how to work the tray.”

Erik snorts.

“Shit. I shouldn't have told you that. No! No! Everything behind the scenes here is ace. Never better,” And Erik can't help but snort louder, which frankly is embarrassing because his mind flashes with an image of a shark as he continues to let his laughter conquer him.

“I'm used to a bit of chaos,” He diverges, an innocent grin spread below those green, green eyes.

“I bet,” Charles says too quickly and it sounds too sensual, too suggestive. It digs a small hole into Erik’s heart and leaves dirty images for him to skim through. Charles is humiliated. He masks it with a smile, an innocent one. Truly.

“I love the chaos actually. The wilder the better,” Erik says and it makes things worse.

“In that case, things get pretty frantic around here.”

“Really?”

“Undeniably so.”

“And you? How wild are you?”

“Erik Lehnsherr, are you flirting with me?”

He feels dumbfounded. He probably looks like a deer in headlights too. For the longest moment, he doesn't know what to do with his hands. “I, uh,” yes. No. Maybe. Yes. Do you mind?”

 _Really_ , Erik.

“I don't know,” Charles admits and his blue eyes linger to the side framing an invisible question that Erik seems to believe he understands.

“There's no one in the picture. For the record, I mean. Their mother and I. Her – their. No.”

“Oh.” Charles takes a step closer, his uniform suddenly feels so tight against his body. He doesn't appreciate the image of Erik and his three kids in his mind whilst he battles a semi-erection brewing in his pant. “I, uh. Divorce?”

“One of them.”

“One of them?”  
  
“My first wife passed away.”

“Oh, I'm so –”

“It's okay. Close your eyes.” And suddenly, like being awakened by a splash of ice-cold water, both men are strikingly aware of how close they've gotten. Charles’ nose is on the edge of Erik’s jaw, his blue eyes yearning to be dragged up into the air so that he could see into Erik’s own.

Erik wants to scold himself. He's here with his kids, he's on his way to a prestigious university, he's in his late thirties or early forties(He'd rather not say), and he's struggling through custody agreements with his second wife who, at that very moment, has probably found a way to make sure that he is behaving. These are the variables. But the answer to whatever equation he's working out in his head doesn't match up to the smell of Charles’ skin. It doesn't make sense of how they've drawn their bodies into each other’s unwillingly and how Erik, hard as a rock, is struggling to keep his eyes open as he hovers over Charles’ parting lips.

His hands find their way into Charles’ sides, hauling him closer. And he can feel those pink lips brush over his jaw, bruising from his sharp stubble. “I don't normally do this,” Charles admits, “I'm. I don't –” and Erik lands onto his pink, pillowy lips. There's a moist, comforting sensation that melts them together. It's almost so careful the kiss until Charles fights back. He presses Erik against the wall until he can map his fingers to the side of the pantry where the back bathroom door easily unlocks. Between the intoxicating way Charles begins to draw his tongue in and out of Erik’s mouth and how he can't help but bite back, he barely notices when they're in closed quarters.

Charles has his fingers unbuttoning the taller man’s shirt from top to bottom, their lips glued, and his thigh tucked between Erik’s legs.

“I don't normally do this either,” Erik exhales into Charles’ mouth, heaving, “but fuck. You taste like, what's it? Cranberry!”

“Shh, sweetheart.” Erik nearly dies from heart failure when Charles whispers the pet name into his lips.

He sounds like her.

He grunts deeply as Charles sucks on his bottom lip, his thigh pressing into Erik’s crotch with heated lust. Charles is aware of how hard Erik is, he can feel it on himself as he thrusts his thigh between the taller man.

He's wild like her.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Erik pants, he grasps Charles’ neck slightly, just enough to feel the goosebumps that stretch over the shorter man. And his lips are spit wet and pink as jasmines, almost bruised. Charles grazes his teeth over it, biting his lip while his warm, aquatic eyes drill holes into Erik’s throat.

He has pretty eyes like her.

“I'm waiting,” Charles says matter-of-factly.

“I,” he tries, “want this. Desperately. But it feels too rushed. I'd prefer to take you out first if you don't mind.”

“Are you asking me out or thinking about it?”

“Asking.”

“We have seven hours and three-thirds of a plane to ourselves,” Charles jokes, “one hour. First class. I'll bring the wine, and you, you bring those magnificent eyes.” He feels the brunet’s fingers float over his eyes. He gets it. His eyes change color. It's weird. He's glad Charles likes it. “Oh, and, button up before you leave.”

Erik barely readies himself for his heart to return to its natural place as it hits his chest with a bang while watching the shorter man leave.

This trip seems promising, and he certainly is no longer tired. The bathroom door shuts. Erik can see himself in the mirror that was blocked by Charles’ amazing, amazing, amazing essence. He looked like a mess. His air is ruffled like the feathers on an ostrich’s spine, and his lips – God, Charles had nearly assassinated him with nothing but his mouth – the color of the night sky, purple and abused. He licks his bottom lip, wincing slightly. He started with his shirt, buttoning it and not paying mind to his trembling fingers.

What a twist.

Row 33 was never more alive then when Erik saunters back into his seat, smiling on behalf of Wanda’s new mood. Nina was on Pietro’s lap while she did her best to size up to Wanda’s length as her older sister braids her hair carefully into two new tails. Pietro didn't look excited by the endeavor but he wasn't complaining because Nina was telling him a story about some imaginary lion she and Wanda had cooked up.

“Papa, there was a lady here with pretty hair. She gave us these,” Wanda twists her spine to show Erik the sparkling hair ties(He does his best not to imagine Charles with his hair tied up.), “she said that we have your eyes!” He felt accused though, like Wanda was wronged for sharing an inkling of Erik’s DNA. She had a smile on her cheeks though, and it was one of those that made Erik feel so big in comparison to her. It was Wanda’s signature smirk: one that swathed Erik in webs of respect and power. Wanda looked up to him. All Erik could think was, _you look more like her everyday. Those blood red lips. My little scarlet baby._

The tray table rolled loudly down the column on Pietro’s side, the silver-haired boy jumped slightly. “Oh, sorry about that big guy,” it was Charles. “It's dinner time, would you like something to eat?”

Pietro nods viciously because, and the man with the universe for eyes knows this, he's anxious around strangers. Both twins are guarded. It doesn't seem to cut Charles’ confidence like it would normally Erik’s. “What's your name darling? I love your hair, it's ‘narly, truly,” Charles smiles, stealing a look from Erik as the taller man wanes. (He just said the word narly, right? Erik didn't imagine it?)

“You like my hair?” Pietro asked gleefully. Anyone who saw his pale dimples darken from his toothy grin would know that the boy was fond his hair.

“Of course! Don't you?”

It takes a moment before Pietro speaks, “I do. Mama used to change it, she said she took the colors of the sky and washed me with them.”

“I wish I could've seen it, she done an excellent job. You're a very handsome boy,” Charles said, his voice laced with care.

“Quicksilver, Sag ihm deinen Namen,” Erik murmured privately to Pietro, but Charles must've heard because he greets the man with a face masked with surprise.

Pietro obliges, “I'm Pietro.” Charles grows that same smile that Erik has admittedly started falling in love with.

“I'm Char–”

“My name’s Wanda! I met your sister,” Erik’s scarlet baby interrupts, “She gave me these. Do you want one?”

“Oh that's alright,” Charles says and pull a band from his arm as he ties his brown curls behind his ears into a tight ponytail that has Erik creaming his pants, “I have my own. My sister has a habit of dealing them out.”

“You look,” those green pearls blurt out, “really good with your hair like that.”

Charles doesn't have a moment to thank him before Pietro’s stomach shakes the plane into three or four pieces(And thank heavens because Erik was met with the most suspicious look from Nina after he teethed out his compliment). “Woah. Someone's hungry, aren't they? We have chicken sandwiches or Macaroni.”

“He has a difficult stomach, the macaroni will be  
fine. Please, I mean.”

“Of course,” says the brunet, gulping. “And for you, little lovebird?” There's a silence that swallows row 33 like a black hole. Charles, for some reason, was filling boxes Erik didn't even know he had, and for some magical reason he was convinced that his late wife was alive and living as Charles Xavier – however, slightly improved with the blue eyes that could lure an army of men to the edge of their lives. – Wanda had mumbled something about having what her brother was having in the time it took Erik to think straight. “And how about that Coke for you now, sweety? Is that alright, Erik?”

Yes.

Charles lifted his brows as if to repeat his question.

“Ahem. Yes, sure, it's not a problem,” the man finally says(out loud). He continues to stare, conspicuously to say the least, as Charles curves his back and reaches for a tray of Macaroni and four cans of Coke with their accompanying plastic cups. Charles is really something. Erik melts into it, he melts into this something that is Charles and he can't help it. It's like a warm fireplace demanding to be used, to burn everything Erik can offer for the exchange of feeling at home. It's beautiful, he concludes. Charles is beautiful.

“As for you, I'll see you later?”

“I'll be there,” Erik says slightly too fast.

Those pink lips thin out into a sportive grin, “Good.”

**and this mother will have a boy as big as the globe, 8:24 p.m.**

Erik had thirty minutes before his date.

Out of the blue, Wanda climbs into his lap, curling her calves over his thighs so that she can lay over him, patiently. She waits a trice, maybe two, before she mumbles, “I like him. I think. When his hair is up he looks like her. Did you see?”

He lets his hand fall down on her abdomen, running small shapes into her red shirt, “I did.”

“And,” She stops herself in thought, “I think you like him. I know he's not her but I think you don't mind anymore. That's okay. Are you going to take him flowers?”

“Wanda, I barely know him. We just met. Flowers? I'm not –”

“Papa. Don't you watch the movies? It starts like this! See,” And Erik finds her eyes staring through him into some imaginary fixation that makes perfect sense to her, “you meet him and it makes, I don't know. Like Nina says, it feels like Christmas! You meet him and it feels like Christmas! Papa, do you understand?” Then she's staring right at him, like she always does, like he's everything.

“I think so.” Imagine that, Wanda thinks that Charles and him are a pair for the big screen. “Come here guys,” Erik exclaims, pulling all three of them into a cluster of limbs and grunts, “you guys are the loves of my life, and Anya too! I just hope you know that.”

“Daddy, your beard hurts!” Nina complains, pushing her soft hands to his snarky smile.

“I know that's why I keep it!” He whispers loudly into her ears as he scratches at her forearms with his stubble. “I got you!”

“No, daddy! Stop it!” She hiccups.

**I love you baby, 8:45 p.m.**

Erik is nervous. Hell, that's an understatement. He feels the dam breaking by the tip of his knuckles as the sweat threatens to spill down his palms. There's no right way to describe how he's feeling, he thinks. But the way his heart drums against his chest like metal banging on metal banging on earth is enough to label him a nervous wreck.

He's aware he doesn't look his best. No doubt about it. He's been driving around New York all day, packing and rushing his kids into their tiny car and pulling his hair out at the nightmares of fucking up his lecture. So, he looks as good as he can at the moment. Fortunately, he thinks, Charles couldn't seem to keep his hands off him.

He moves the curtain that divides Economy from First Class with a slow, steady but sweaty hand. There's Charles. He's moved two seats to face each other, barely an inch left to keep their knees from potentially brushing one another's, and a table was set up to the side with metal bucket of ice and Graça wine. Beside the bucket there's a small plate of miniature croissants and chicken strips laid in melted cheese and tikka marinade.

How lovely.

The brunet sees him immediately, greeting him with a toothy grin and those blue, blue, blue eyes. He had changed from his uniform into a fitting grey suit that seemed to match the silver of Erik’s watch. It was fitting.

“You look ravishing,” Erik says, finding himself by Charles, sitting awkwardly opposite of him.

“Thank you, I hope you don't mind. I wanted to impress you,” Charles admits almost too easily, his eyes were searching Erik, searching for Erik’s approval but still, in their own right, very confident.

“You have, many times… and I've known you for a minute perhaps.”

Charles can't help but relax into the taller man’s words, and Erik falls right behind him, following his lead. “Your kids are so beautiful, Erik. But I'm possibly biased.”

“Why would you be biased?”

“Well,” And Charles feels silly, “because they look like you, in some strange way.” Erik has to giggle, even silently. This makes Charles happy. “And Wanda, have you noticed how she has your smile?”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes!” Charles says excitedly, reaching forward to trace Erik’s lips, “just like that! Vicious in the cutest way. Hmm, maybe sharky.”

Then, like a row of fallen dominoes, Erik remains the one left standing. He's waiting, losing himself in Charles’ touch without even noticing how the brunet’s fingers have already left. The comment, if it has momentarily made him think of his late wife, hadn't shaken him up or tore away his firm stance. Erik just felt so at ease. Maybe it was Charles?

“Tell me,” He stutters, “What do you really do?”

“Hmm?” Charles asks, bewildered. The question was so vague.

“A flight attendant can't afford a suit like that,” Erik states, acknowledging how the grey seams were too flawlessly woven into diamond patches, the kind of suit that held art in one piece while it looked, to the naked eye, completely ordinary. “And earlier you struggled with the table, and the pantry cabinets had your eyes scrambled. If you don't work here, what do you do?”

Charles’ jaw hung like a child's swing. “You're very clever,” he says calmly, “I'm actually – my sister works here. She thought, me being rich from inheritance, I couldn't handle a real job. Nevertheless, at my own airline. It's a dare.”

“You own X-Airlines?”

“My mother does. Did. Once did. Yes. Sort of. It's part of the family transport. Truthfully, I've never noticed it until last week.”

“Wow,” Erik thinks, “I'm so glad that your sister fooled you into working as a steward then.”

“Why's that?”

Erik nearly snorts, disbelieving how oblivious Charles seemed as he waited for an honest answer. “Because you're ravishingly handsome,” he says matter-of-factly, “And my children already adore you. Well, Wanda does and she's the most difficult one.”

“I'm relieved,” Charles laughs. “You know, I love children. I wanted to open a school once upon a dream but it got away from me during my twenties.”

“Why's that?”

“I lost a few people. Important people.”

Erik watches the blue in his eyes strike a solid block of obsidian as his memories nearly took him away. “I understand,” is all he says and Charles reels himself back into Earth.

“I know.”

“Are you from New York? Your accent, it's, uh, different,” he tries, “I–”

“I have an accent that's different?” Charles laughs, his hair loosens from the vibrations and the taller man, as usual, is completely lost. “Have you heard yourself? And, oh my god, Pietro has a voice box from another universe!”

“He's Sokovian,” Erik says sweetly, his tone mixed with that which bartenders blend cocktails with(Fruity and cold), “his sister too. Just like their mother.”

“Sokovia? The city that–”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Charles couldn't register why he seemed so quick to interrupt him. But, “Oh. I'm so sorry.” The taller man doesn't reply quickly enough for the comfort of Charles so he asks, “how long ago?”

“Eight years ago, the twins were three. They're eleven now, and Nina’s four. Nina and her sister Anya, who's almost over a year, are from my ex wife. I know it's not the most attractive thing, a man with two wives and four children trying to do his best to seduce a young thirty-something-year-old into dating him, but –”

Charles’ hand is suddenly on Erik’s cheek, stroking away a single tear that the taller man could swear was burning his skin without his notice. Those blue eyes curtained him from seeing the empty First Class around them, and before he could count his heartbeats he had his own hand pulling Charles’ hair free from their pony and his other removing that blazer. “You're very sexy, Erik. Believe me. And your past has done nothing more than shape you into the person that I'm currently, probably head-over-heels for,” Charles says, and it's so shameless, so full of honesty that Erik can't help but squint. It's too unreal and yet he can't see anything else. “You must be hungry.”

“Yes,” Erik moans under Charles, still holding him a breath away.

“There is food here–”

“Not for that.”

“Oh.”

Erik’s teeth are grazing Charles’ lips, teasing him, taunting, ruining him easily. He sucks onto Charles’ bottom lip with an innocent slurp, biting into the flesh that pecks his front teeth. When the brunet’s lips smack back onto his face Erik’s eyes are completely dull and grey, burdened with fiery lust that carried the mirage of iron and steel. He kisses Charles’ swollen lip methodically, as to heal what he did. Then against the man’s mouth he whispers, “are we alone?”

“Comp-letely,” Charles struggles. The shorter man can't help but chase after Erik’s lips and collapsing into his arching body. “S-sry.” Erik’s hands clash against the small of the brunet’s back, leaving the heavy brown locks to wash over his face, and forcing the man further into him as if he couldn't get enough. And he couldn't.

It was obvious to Charles that Erik was really, really hard. Erik imagines what he must think: how it curves in the tightness of his pants, holding pillar for the way the the taller man’s legs spread out dominantly underneath Charles. At the tip, electric waves of what Erik swore was magic pulsed repeatedly, and the brunet could feel it, count it, memorize it.

Erik’s hands at are at the hem of Charles’ pant, doing-undoing-doing-undoing the thread to find some sort of leverage. Then: by the faint squeel that tightened Erik’s ears he slipped his greedy hands down Charles’ pants, clawing at the fabric of his briefs, clawing at his ass. The brunet bites down on Erik’s lip with sharp teeth, making the taller man jolt and clench down on Charles’ ass. It was like a pendulum. The two of them move frantically, heavily, and eagerly against each other and whatever Erik did made Charles react a second later, maybe less, and what Charles did resulted similarly. He grunts and Charles dives into him before he pulls away and breathes, “Sh, shh, shh, sweetheart. We're alone but we still have to be quiet.”

Erik can't decide if this is a bad idea, but his head rings violently at him that it doesn't matter, that Charles is like a drug. He thinks, _who needs a smoke with a man like this to pull the breath from your lungs?_

His hands are like mechanic claws anchoring into Charles’ ass like underneath those god forsaken briefs there was a childhood treasure. He feels the cold brush of the brunet’s fingers pulling on his skin, hastily trying to rid Erik from his tiny shirt. When it reaches his armpits he flings into claylike patty so that Charles could do as he pleases. Now, watching down on him, Charles is less confident with his angelic lips. Erik is made from rock, yes. Erik is made from concrete, yes. Erik is over a meter long block of pure lean muscle. His abdomenals tense under Charles’ stare, making the brunet grow hungry eyes. He places a kiss on Erik’s lips again, taking his time to suck the spit wet, reddened strips that they are before he moves down, past the stubble, to his throat. In between the brims of his lips, Erik’s adam’s apple bobbs. And then the shorter man moves further down onto the sweaty block of Erik’s right pectoral. His teeth catch onto the nipple, chewing on the sensitive tip while Erik bit back his grunt.

The taller man moves his hands back to Charles’ waist, this time making his way to the belt that easily slips from his first pull. He sets it to the side, listening to it fall. Charles pulls away by himself to remove his shirt, and then he's standing, eyeing Erik playfully as he shimmies his pant down to his ankles. He steps out. Erik swallows the thick, hot air and palms his crotch – FUCK. He was hard. – lustfully. Charles is only in his briefs which are white as the sun, and wet from his leaking, and what looks to be pink cock. The streak of precum drizzles from the tip of his erection to where his thigh bulged below. Erik follows the trace of hair that rises in the shape of the Eiffel Tower from Charles’ briefs to his belly button and then trifles carefully up his torso.

 _This_ man.

“Take it off,” Erik demands and Charles does slowly, toying with the elastic band by his hip. “Wait, no! Come here.” And Charles does…

His lips are two breaths away from the shorter man’s beating dick and it smells amazing. He can't quite handle it to be honest. Erik’s steel eyes fall shut as he bites down on the clothed girth, teasing Charles, and his shoulders become heavy from the brunet’s heavy hands landing on him for support. Erik licks his length. Then: he pulls the elastic down and barely dodges when Charles’ dick smacks his ear.

A moment later, he's mapping Charles’ legs and each freckle as his hands find their own road back to where Charles’ balls hung patiently, pulling tight from anticipation. He's playing with them, clawing them, rubbing them as he licks Charles’ length another time. The brunet tastes so, so sweet on Erik’s tongue; Charles is addicting. He brings his mouth to the tip, kissing gently before rolling his tongue over the tip. Charles is hissing behind his bitten lips, swearing at Erik, and the taller man dares to go faster. He's sucking just the head, rolling his tongue, purring through his teeth, making Charles twitch and shake. Charles fights back, unsuccessfully, and chokes Erik all too fast, fucking his dick further into the man’s mouth until he's bashing on Erik’s throat. There's a tear, maybe two but the taller man holds Charles’ hips down, giving him permission to thrust into his mouth. Every other second Charles is wincing as Erik playfully grazes his teeth over the shaft, and it's actually hot as fuck. He knows because Charles fights back a lisping _yessss_.

Charles’ hips begin to roll and row and grind into Erik’s throat very soon. Erik has his right hand crawling to where the hairs scarcely split in Charles’ ass and right there(right _there_ ) he can feel the shorter man’s gaping asshole. His index finger hovers over the entrance but Erik can already feel the walls on the inside begging for him to indulge. He does, and he's moaning on Charles’ cock pleasurably, while his finger moves into Charles and, “oh oh oh” – Charles is warm, soft and unique inside and out. – “oh! Erik, shit.” He's rowing his hips wildly now, so wildly that Erik can barely get to inhale and instead he's drowning in Charles – in his dick, ass and smell and those fucking eyes. – “I'm,” but Charles doesn't finish cursing as he thrusts into Erik, and the taller man can feel the brunet’s dick throb harshly on his tongue, “f-f-fu.” It hits Erik’s throat violently, destroying the pink-purple tunnels that lead down his body with white paste and Erik, admittedly, chants as he tastes it. It's sweeter than honey and he's drinking it all while his hand absentmindedly finds itself fucking Charles into his throat… until the brunet’s dying erection is red, throbbing and sore. He gives the shorter man an escape, pulling his fingers out very carefully and letting the cool air attack the man. And Charles – poor Charles – is so overwhelmed his body falls weakly into Erik's and they're both grinning lazily. “Your turn.”

The intercom chimes violently but they hear nothing but static before it ends again. Charles is smiling, and he's happy while he curls into Erik. “I–” Their plate of food rolls off and shatters against the floor. They both looked surprised. “Do you hear that?”

“Oh no,” Erik whitens as his ears adjust to the thunder, “no, no, no. My twins are frightened of things like this, I have to go. I'm so sorry. You're amazing, really. I'm – when it's over, I'll find you.”

“No, no don't worry! Go! And take this!” Charles throws Erik his own shirt as he hurries out of the shorter man’s grip. The floor roars below them. The intercom chimes again.

“All passengers please fasten your seatbelts, may cabin crew strap in. We will be flying through rough turbulence for no more than an expected fifteen minutes. It is now nine-forty-five in New York, and we will be landing in five hours.”

Charles swears himself, “this would be so easy if I wasn't naked and sticky.”

Erik finds Wanda curled up with Nina on his own seat, brushing her hair, and Pietro’s chewing his nails as he normally does when he's nervous. Erik knew this would happen, he's just glad that Wanda hadn't lost her nerve yet. He regretted finding her one day outside amidst a wild thunderstorm as she cried into the eye of the sky, blaming it for taking her mother. (She was a mad thing on bad days but she was the meaning of life every other day.) He soaked into Nina’s seat, his arm slowly falling down across the three of them. 

“Daddy, there are lions outside,” Nina says proudly because she thinks she's figured it all out but Wanda is looking down at her with eye bags of a fifty-year-old – drenched in stress. – “Can you hear?”

“Darling, that's the thunder,” he says softly while rubbing a small cursive name into Pietro’s shirt.

“How was it?” Wanda asks, her voice shaky.

“Charles is sweet, liebling. He thinks you're beautiful just like me and mommy do,” Erik swallows.

“Did,” Pietro corrects.

“It's all the same.”

Wanda, diverging from the topic, whispers, “I'm scared, Papa.” And Erik instantly has his chin resting on her head, breathing calmly over her.

“I know, baby. It's almost over.”

From the other side suddenly, Charles appears with wool blankets, his uniform barely in the right condition – Erik wants to smile, he wants to take Charles’ hand and go back to where they were and fuck him until it's just the smell of sex around him, but – and Erik greets him warmly. “I brought these. My nanny used to tell me that a blanket was like a shield to anything that scared you,” Charles says, wrapping the blanket around Wanda and Pietro while Nina slid between the two older children. Erik mouths a thank you from the corner of Charles’ eye. “So if it gets scary, darlings, just cover your eyes and reach out for you father. He's quite a strong, protective man.”

The outside of the plane rumbles spitefully, Charles’ grip on the seat tightens as the floor begins to shake. Erik can see the white of the brunet's knuckles, and the way his chest pangs worries him. “Charles, you're so kind. Really. Although, if you don't sit down and tie yourself to this plane right this moment I will come over there and hold you down. It's dangerous.” 

“Yes, daddy,” Charles insist, biting his grin away. “I'll see you later. Be good darlings.”

“Daddy, you look so pale!”

Shut up.

Before Charles disappears though, the air whips against the plane’s wings and sends a heavy shutter through the whole mechanic construction. Charles finds himself slipping. His head sounds loud against the floor(His loud yelp is even worse). 

Wanda swears her father has never been quicker getting on his feet and climbing over four seats to see if one man was alright, but Erik is bending down over Charles’ head, his hands trembling slightly, trying to see if he was alright. If she(Wanda and her witty little head) had counted the time it took for Erik to get to Charles she would've been silenced by the thunder or the plummeting rain before she even said _one_. Nonetheless, her father was quick to get to Charles. “Oh good lord, please be fine. Say something, angel even if it's ‘narly.”

The plane tilts to the side. They hear the bags above shift and slide in the overhead cabinets. Charles is squinting at Erik like the man has a halo of toy ducks floating above him. “Wh’s wrong with ‘narly?” Erik lets out a guffaw of laughter, snowing himself with relief.

“Come, sit down,” Erik helps the brunet stand up and sets him into the seat next to the window where the rain shoots against the glass with bullet-fast dew drops. Charles’ grip on his shoulder feels so needy it almost reminds Erik of how they were minutes ago. He pushes the thought away. “How's your head?”

“Good, good. I'm fine, Erik. I promise.”  
  
“Okay,” He murmurs, he glances back to see his kids who are all staring like star struck idiots but Wanda, in particular, is whispering something in German that Erik doesn't really thinks he understands – there's no way. – “I think,” He says to Charles, “Wanda wants me to kiss you.”

“Do _you_ want to kiss me?”

“Aha, uh, yea–yeah. Always, actually.”

“Then do it.” The plante shutters. Erik thinks his heart probably caused it because its pounding violently against his skin, tearing his thorax apart.

“Okay.”

He follows Charles scent until it drags his bruised lips onto the brunet’s, and they kiss… softly. It's like a kiss they haven't shared before, it's subtle and compassionate; it carries a secret promise between the way Erik sips Charles up like a delicate piece of dark chocolate. They can hear the giggles behind them and they ignore it, lip-locked and full of – not love, not yet. It's too soon, Erik promises himself. _Right?_ – something that's two steps away from love.

_“You're easy to fall in love with sweetheart… You fall in love with anything with pretty eyes and a wild heart.”_

“Dear passengers” the intercom rings, “we will be landing in four hours. May cabin crew prepare for breakfast, this is Captain Ororo and from here on out the flight will be nothing short of smooth.”

Charles is the first to pull away, his breath shaky on Erik’s tongue. “I have to go now, but I'll see you before it's over. We should –”

“Go on a real date? In London, right? Or back in Westchester.”

“Are you asking me out or thinking about it?” Charles laughs softly, pressing a small kiss on the corner of Erik’s lips.

“I'm asking.”

“I'll be back,” Charles says, uncurling himself from Erik's embrace, “with my number. Then you can ask me out again when you're done with whatever you're doing in London.”

“I'm giving a lecture!” Erik says quickly, “I'm a professor.”

“Okay, professor Erik,” He stiffens, “a real date. Call me and we'll finish what we started.”

“Yesss,” Erik purrs, leaving no room for Charles to react as he goes in for another kiss. A small one. Charles escapes from under him, enjoying the taste of Erik’s lips while the thought that whatever it was came from him, Charles.

“I'll be back,” he says, “I'll, I'll be back in a second.”

“You said that.”

“I know, but I'll be back.”

“Hurry.”

Charles fights his smirk.

God, Erik thinks. _That butt_.

He turns to see his kids who are all hanging over one another with sly grins as they stare their father down. “ _I'm giving a lecture. I'm a professor!_ ” Pietro mimicks sneakily.

“Shut up, and sit properly,” He shoots back half-heartedly, smiling into the feeling that takes over his head: bliss.

“Ooh! Someone's feisty,” Wanda sneers.

 _God damn it_. _At least_ , Erik tells himself. _They like him_.

**i love you more mama, 11:00 p.m.**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is enjoyable. I've been meaning to write this for awhile, and I finally developed the guts after being inspired by some good ol' Michael Fassbender abs.


End file.
